


Liability

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Freaky Tits, Hurt/Comfort, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 04:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10268069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Tipped off by Wentworth's Top Dog, Bea Smith, Governor Vera Benett intends to find out whatever is the matter with Joan Ferguson. This fic takes place after the ganging by Juice and the crew. Rather than Kaz caring for Joan, it's Vera. With her ethics put to the test, Vera has to decide if this is a necessary sacrifice.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Saint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Saint/gifts).



> Kudos to Saint for giving me this idea. Months later, I finally executed it. I always felt terrible for Joan after that scene in s4. She didn't deserve it. It was gruesome. Nobody deserves to go through that. Well, hope you all enjoy this!

> _liability_
> 
> 1\. the state of being responsible for something, especially by law.
> 
> 2\. a person or thing whose presence or behavior is likely to cause embarrassment or put one at a disadvantage.

 

The fire that consumed a good portion of Wentworth promised a rebirth. At least, that's what Governor Vera Bennett had hoped for.

As per usual, Vera gives it her all. She does what she thinks is best for Wentworth. With a talented team, they compile a brochure that resurrects the correctional facility, bringing it into a new light. She steels herself, prepared for the backlash.

But she doesn't expect _this_.

She doesn't expect Queen Bea tipping her off.

Even now, scampering down the hallway late into the night, Vera reflects on Smith's ominous phrasing. What, precisely, had she said?

“Governor Bennett, you'll want to take a look at this. Ferguson's cell.”

Oh, yes.

_That_.

Officer Linda Miles stands guard outside of the ward. For once, the woman fidgets, expressing her discomfort. Seldom does she witness such a ghastly, gorey scene. Vera raises a brow at her, the lines in her forehead flexing.

“Stand aside, Miles. Go make your rounds. I'll handle this.”

Again, she takes matters into her own hands. It feels strange to finally handle the reins on your life. To have a sense of self.

Linda nods, saying nothing, opting to walk down the lonely hall instead.

Proctor keeps her distance, but she's like a fly on the wall. Tucks it all away in case the Red Right Hand requires a little assitance from Governor Bennett. Yet, Kaz knows better than to interfere when a woman's hurting. She disappears in the shadows, mindful of all the soft, choking sobs of pain.

For the sake of her job, Vera shouldn't be here. She shouldn't be in the lion's den. The belly of the beast. Whatever reinvented myth you make it to be. Her career teeters on a fine line. She's not brave. Meg Jackson had been right. Your kindness exposed you. You were prey to the predators within these cells.

Though the door's open a crack, she knocks anyway. Takes her back to the days she nervously stood outside Ferguson's office. It's her office now and it still feels alien, as though she's filling a temporary pair of shoes, waiting to be cast aside once more.

With a sigh, Vera shakes her head. No longer the mouse she used to be, she opens the door. Ferguson's cell resembles a shadowy den. Inside this eminent domain, the cool, calm, collected Joan is replaced by an older woman moaning in pain, her arm protectively crossed over her midriff.

“Who did this to you?” Her voice sounds shriller than she remembered.

Nightmares stir Ferguson awake. Sweat soaked, the screaming, the shouting faces, the hands, the touching all haunt her. It hollows her cheeks, sinks in her dark, dark eyes. The gut wrenching pain in her womb refuses to subside.

“Ferg-- Joan... Are you _okay_?”

In that moment, her voice sounds small. A distant star projected into the night sky. Yes, she wanted revenge. Yes, she felt life delivered her a cruel hand, but she didn't want this for Joan Ferguson. Far from it. Eyes fluttering, Ferguson fists the bloodied cloth, wrapping it around her knuckles. She feels filthy. This hadn't been in her calculations. This hadn't been the original plan.

At the sight, Vera winces. Sheets pool around Joan's waist, revealing a damp wetness that can only be described as drying blood. She thought herself stronger. She thought herself becoming someone else. Someone fit to be governor. She's not Erica Davidson. She's not Meg Jackson. She's certainly not Joan Ferguson. Vera looks away, her breath caught in her throat.

_You are weak_ , Joan thinks, but it's a projection of her truest self.

“Be astute, Vera. Do I appear ' okay ' to you? Though I suppose I would, considering your concerns lay elsewhere.”

Choking on venom, choking on agony, Joan manages to deliver her biting remarks.

Even now, she cannot bring herself to call Vera ' Governor. ' It's a thorn in her side. Stubborn, woeful pride refuses to let her budge. For once, Vera allows her to win this battle. She makes no remarks though a much nastier side of her wants to leave Ferguson behind. To tell her to fuck off and to address her as fucking Governor.

The old Vera, however, clings to what once was.

She frowns and turns to the sink. Setting the water to luke warm, Vera brings allows a wash cloth to soak up the moisture. She wrenches the cotton in her hands, her thoughts an erratic blur. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry._ The record skips in Vera's head.

Once more, she plays the role of nursemaid. Once more, a woman suffers and she is forced to care for them. Once more, she eases into the role of Florence Nightingale. Somehow, it's easier this way. She drapes the cloth across Joan's already damp forehead.

Vera takes the old fabric from Ferguson's hands, the piece stained by crimson. It's hard to watch and even harder to wash away the blood.

“I'm sorry this happened to you.”

No woman deserves this.

**No one.**

Despite the veil of pain, Joan looks Vera dead in the eye. She's searching for something, but it's impossible. Once again, she's drowning in the depths of Vera's eyes. She never liked the feeling of drowning. It's much like falling in love: a grave mistake, a mortal weakness.

Now, she's living a fairy tale though perhaps not the one she wanted. There's no prince to whisk Vera away. Her life of misery and misfortune ended, or so she thought, upon the death of her mother. Yet, here she lives, trapped within Aesop's fables. The little mouse pulling the thorn from the lion's mighty paw.

“Joan, you require medical attention!”

The urgency in Vera's voice is counteracted by Joan's resilience. All these words come out like a great, big rush of wind.

“No,” she rasps out in retailiation.

Vera respects her wishes despite the wrongness of it.

The Governor skirts across the fine line of professionalism. She could lose her job over this preferential treatment. An inmate might catch wind, might walk by late in the night, and use those prying eyes for leverage.

Despite her gnawing nerves, Vera tries to push the thought aside. She's here to dig, to find the truth of the matter, as well as console Joan. With a sigh of resignation, she reaches for a clean glass. Fills it with cold water, as cold as it can be from the tap. She offers the cup to Joan who stares at it like a stray accepting a morsel from the hand of a stranger.

“You need to stay hydrated,” Vera implores her.

Begrudingly, Joan takes a sip. It's not poisoned, but it might as well be.

Vera sits on the edge of the bed, conquering her fears. She's not afraid of this woman. The rose-tinted glasses have been lifted from her forced vision. Her arm extends, her palm open, which Joan eyes with the utmost form of scrutiny. Slowly, she runs her fingers through that ebony veil. Untagles the slight knots by hand. To become intimate with an inmate is a violation in itself, but she finds herself disregarding the rule entirely.

“I have to tell someone, Joan. I have to report this.”

“No!” she exclaims by seizing Vera's wrist. Joan's strength startles her. She flinches, remembering her mother.

“What happened to trust, Vera?” Joan asks, her voice softer, regardless of the hoarseness that scratches at her chords. Her skin is pale, attributed to the deathly pallor of her trauma.

_You can't manipulate me anymore._ Vera frowns, her eyes flicking down to Joan's hand and how it lingers on her arm. Like all the other inmates, Joan has assimilated. It's all hush-hush. To lag means to die, as simple as that sans the poetic.

“It fell apart like we did,” Bennett says after a moment of courage.

Ferguson falls silent, imagining her fingers prying the crowns from Vera's shoulders. It's a thought that lulls her. That makes the pain worth it. Her life has been and always will be a fight.

After all this time, the tables have turned. It's Vera who holds Joan. Vera who comforts Joan. She pulls the thin, starchy sheet over the taller woman, hiding the blood though the stench of iron lingers. She wraps her sinewy arms around Joan's shoulders. It feels like the old days. The grey days where she didn't know herself. Where Ferguson had been her dark light.

In the reverent silence, they both drift off. Vera falls asleep crumpled, her head pressed against the wall, until Miles comes to relieve her of this daunting shift. Linda says nothing. In the dying, morning light, Vera detaches herself from Joan. Resigned, she lingers in the doorway. She casts a pitiful look at Ferguson.

_I don't want to leave her. I hate her. Loathe her, but no one deserves this. No one._

Like Aesop's fables, she's left to contemplate the morale.

With a heavy heart, Vera finds there isn't one.

 

 


End file.
